The Traveling Ink

I find the art of writing beautiful, especially with old ink quill pens. Its just something about how ink flows...

A steady flow, Down to the tip. The tip glides. It runs the ink throughout the paper... Sheer brilliance in structure and design. One drop... Just one, Can write a thousand words. Two can write a thousand more... When will it cease? Run out?

Never! Refill, replenish, Reimburse it with the brilliance you took away from it Let it soak it all up,

To every last drops..................

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I'm really impressed. The way you treat the simple subject of the power of penstroke by taking it down to the level of the drop- like the blood of a redemptive sacrifice, this has a sanctimonious feel. Very well done. (also- the visual of the drops of ink at the end show a great versatility in artistic vision!)

Ah! I'm in love with it! I have a very serious love for the magical substance that lives in pens... Ink. It tells a story, a short story, (which is the only thing I can find even a bit wrong about this poem) but a story that paints brilliant mental images none the less.